One Girl and Five Ways to Know
by iluxe-love
Summary: IchiRuki. Ichigo learns what that particular girl means to him, in five parts, one for each of the five senses. Part I: You're the One Who Needs Saving.
1. You're The One Who Needs Saving

**Author's Note: **This is not my first fanfic but my first posted online for others to read, so I would love critique. This story is divided into five parts, one part for each of the five senses. This part is _hearing/sound_.

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I. YOU'RE THE ONE WHO NEEDS SAVING

He felt tired, so tired.

He heard the metallic clash and clang of zanpakutou off in the distance, ringing perpetually in his ears and scattering any thoughts – or any _words_, for that matter – in his disheveled mind. The valiant and sometimes desperate screams of the shinigami no longer disconcerted him; those screams had collectively become a mundane, ordinary sound. And the blood – he could not so much smell it (the odor had pervaded the air so thoroughly for so long that he was having trouble remembering air was not supposed to smell like blood) as much as he could hear it: the bubbling of blood filling fast-failing lungs, spurting out of slit throats; the gurgling of rivers of the crimson liquid surging forward, staining the ground that rain would not be able to wash away for days; the oozing of blood dripping down his face, welling up in the pockets between his mask and his face. The blood blurred his vision.

There was not an ounce of strength left in his body; everything was a dead weight and his zanpakutou was dragging him down even as he leaned heavily on it for support. His breathing was labored; he had to concentrate just to focus on urgently sucking in the blood-infused air and let it out again to greedily suck in another mouthful.

Standing amidst the terrible cacophony of the battlefield – drowning in the sounds and the screams and the slashes assaulting him in wave after wave, relentlessly – hunched over his zanpakutou, being rapidly drained of his strength and will, he was ready to give up. His weakness frustrated to him yet he could not find the will to raise his zanpakutou.

_I will never be strong enough_, he thought in crashing despair. He was _useless, useless, useless!_ And now he heard clearly within him the cackling of the hollow inside nearing his triumph.

But then – piercing through the cacophony that was the battle (_that was life, his life, since he could remember_) like a ray of pure white light stabbing the center of his chest where a hole would have appeared, jolting him awake as if from a deep coma: a voice.

"_Ichigo!_" he heard. And he instantly knew that it was _her_ voice, because it was that very same beautiful and true voice that accompanied him in any and every battle, whether she was physically there or not. For a second, a wave of something like relief washed over him; the voice had come back to him.

"You _moron!!_" Rukia yelled, her shrill voice shattering all doubt that was wreaking havoc in his mind. Her voice rang true, dominating all the rest of the noises of the battlefield. "Stand up and face your enemy in the eye like a true shinigami, idiot!"

Ichigo immediately straightened up, yanking his zanpakutou's blade out of the ground, swinging it in a wide arc and hearing the blade hum as it sliced the heavy air, resting it on one shoulder. He heard her zanpakutou hum (a light, pure hum) as if in response to his. Inside, in his ears, the cackling was strangled.

His mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. "No need to tell me, midget. I already know. Or do you need me to save you again?"

Laughing out loud (an abnormal sound that turned several heads) at Rukia's _you're the one who needs saving you just wait you're going to get it once this is over Kurosaki Ichigo_, he raised his zanpakutou and charged into the fray to fight alongside her. Her face was warped in irritation at him, but she thought he couldn't see the corner of her lips curve slightly upwards. This – fighting together, yelling at each other, being together – was normal.

The cacophony melted away silently; all he could hear was her voice.

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	2. In An Instant, His Hand Was On Her Arm

**Author's Note:** Part 2 of 5, with the sense of _touch_.

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II. IN AN INSTANT, HIS HAND WAS ON HER ARM

"Rukia! _Rukia!_" Ichigo yelled. "God dammit, Rukia, _don't do this to me_!"

He held her upper body in his arms, the rest of her body lying limp on the ground. She couldn't hear him – she had passed out from the loss of so much blood – but Ichigo continued his rushed sweet nothings: _Rukia, you're going to be okay, it's all going to be okay, please don't leave me_. His hands gripped her arms tightly, feeling the heavy, rough fabric of her black and white shinigami uniform. There was a deep, ugly gash of crimson across one side of her neck and down half her back, the scarlet shining starkly against her pale skin, and though he could not see the full extent of the wound, Ichigo could feel the wet, slimy _drip drip_ of blood on his arms, dampening Rukia's uniform and his but he didn't care. The only coherent thought running across his mind was that _Rukia had to be okay_. He gripped her body harder, as if such meaningless physical contact could possibly prevent her from slipping away from him.

Some days later after the momentous battle Rukia stood in Ichigo's bedroom, doing a quick spin in front of the teenage boy, making the light summer dress she was wearing twirl in the air as her bare feet spun on the wood floor. Ichigo stood a little to the side, arms crossed, face scowling as always.

"So? What do you think?" Rukia asked, gesturing towards her dress.

But Ichigo paid no attention to the dress. Instead, he walked forward, quickly closing the gap between the two of them with his long strides as Rukia regarded him warily, wondering what he was up to. In an instant, his hand was on her arm – the smooth, creamy silkiness of her porcelain skin – and his eyes scrutinized the crook of her neck, which was left exposed by the spaghetti-strap summer dress.

He reached forward with the same hand and his fingers ever so gently brushed over the spot on her skin where the scar from the battle shown an angry red. The difference in touch alone was astonishing. Her normally flawless skin felt like silk, but, as he ran his fingers over her collarbone, her skin changed into an ugly, bumpy, and coarse expanse of scar tissue that ran down her back and out of sight behind the soft cotton of her dress.

His face twisted into that of anguish. He was guilty, guilty of marring Rukia, and the scar shone as an ugly reminder of his fault. Her skin would still be smooth and flawless if only he had paid more attention during the battle, if only he hadn't need Rukia to come sprinting in front of him to take the blow for him...

"Ichigo, stop it," Rukia reprimanded sternly. "Stop looking at me that way." She removed his hand from her neck, and as he brought it down, the very tips of his fingers brushed against the soft cotton of her summer dress. Ichigo remembered her once remarking how much more comfortable the summer dresses were than the shinigami uniform, the shihakusho.

He looked down into her face and he saw his face, contorted with disgust at himself, reflected in her wide violet eyes.

"It isn't your fault, Ichigo," Rukia insisted firmly. "It isn't your fault, so stop blaming yourself. You think this is my first time getting a scar? You are not responsible for my injuries. How many times do I have to tell you that, you idiot?" When he didn't say anything in response, she continued, her voice a little softer, "Wounds heal over time, until you can't see them anymore, you know."

"Some wounds don't," Ichigo countered.

"Even if this one doesn't, I don't mind," Rukia said. "In fact, I rather it not heal, then."

Ichigo frowned. Rukia took his hand in hers. They stood like that for a long while, their thoughts and feelings exchanged without words. Rukia made a move to withdraw her hand, but Ichigo reflexively closed her hand over her petite one, his other hand softly rubbing the scar that, in his eyes, marred her perfect skin, and, in her eyes, was a proud badge of her commitment to him.

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	3. The Taste of Her Name

**Author's Note: **Here you go. Part 3 of 5. Sorry it's taking such a long time to upload. I actually have all but one part written out but it takes a while for me to edit before I like the final product enough to upload it and share it with everybody. Sense: _taste_.

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III. THE TASTE OF HER NAME

She was reaching out to his face with her hand and somewhere in the back of his mind, below all of his incomprehensible animal-like thoughts, he marveled at her bravery. The hand never wavered; she wasn't cautious or tentative or afraid of what was before her, but from her demeanor he could tell that she did not think she was being reckless either. Because she believed there was no risk in the first place.

Did she know that she was small, so unbearably small? Against his towering figure, her petite frame almost made her appear vulnerable, like a rabbit standing before a ravenous lion. Almost.

From somewhere in the deep cavern that was his chest came a low moan, the kind that is incomprehensible to any human, any shinigami, a primitive sound of all emotion and no words. Yet she did not flinch. Instead she said in a low murmur so only he could hear (as if she knew he could listen and _understand_, even while others in the background told her ceaselessly that he could not) _Yes, I know Ichigo, I know it's painful. You don't need to be like this. Come back to me, Ichigo._

He didn't (_couldn't, wouldn't_) say anything. Who was this girl...? Who was Ichigo? He licked his lips and relished in the metallic, salty, sharp taste of his own blood. He felt the drive to taste more, the need to feel the crimson liquid wet his lips, but at the same time he was deeply repulsed by it. For the taste of his victims' blood is the taste of fear, and likewise the taste of his own was the taste of his own fear. _His fear of himself_.

Her hand was suddenly on his skull-like mask. Her tiny, tiny porcelain hand was on his grotesque face. And she did not stop. She kept reaching forward, ever forward, brushing the blood-caked hair away from his face, letting her fingers linger delicately over his cheeks, tracing the jagged edges of the mask where it had broken at the mouth, and finally resting... on his lips.

"Ichigo," she murmured.

She drew in a sharp breath when his tongue flickered in and out experimentally, tasting fleetingly her finger resting on his lips. It was only for a second, but it was enough. He had tasted the dried blood of her enemies on her finger, the grime and the sweat from her previous battles. These were things he was acquainted with a thousand times before, tastes that weren't unusual for him.

But – mixed with those gruesome flavors of the hard life of a shinigami perpetually trapped in battle – there was the taste of something else. Something so concentrated, so strong that it had manifested into a _flavor_.

The taste of her concern. Her concern for _him_.

Without warning, he let out a terrible yell that caused the others in the background to throw up their hands reflexively in defense and take a step back but the girl to take a step forward. He sank to his knees, the muscles in his arms straining as he reached up to his face and concentrated all his strength into ripping and tearing and obliterating the suffocating mask. The girl followed him, sinking to her knees, her hand on one of his arms, and for one irrational second he felt like lashing out on that girl because he couldn't understand _why was she still here, what was that look in her eyes, why was she so concerned for him_. He was biting his lip so hard that the blood was rushing out, dripping down his chin in rivulets; his fingers were dyed the scarlet red of his own blood from the forceful prying of the mask which seemed to be suctioned to his face. He could taste it, the strangely addicting coppery taste of blood on his lips...

It was suddenly over. She drew him into her waiting arms, her small arms somehow enveloping his large frame. He buried his bloody face into the crook of her neck and, without thinking, pressed his lips to her creamy skin, tasting the salt of her skin mixed with the salt of his tears burning trails down his face. He felt her reassuring hands stroking his bare, scarred back.

"Rukia," he mumbled as the memories rushed back to him (how could he ever forget her he did not know). The taste of her name on his lips was sweet.

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	4. Let Me Rot From The Inside Out

**Author's Note:** The sense of smell was very difficult to write for me; I guess it's just the last sense that I rely on in everyday life so I never pay much attention to smells. I had so much trouble with this part and I am STILL not entirely happy with this. Anyway, sorry for the delay in the update; I didn't have a chance the last one or two weeks to upload this because I was studying for my AP test. XP Now that that's over, I've been writing a lot more. Watch out for a kakasaku fanfic (for Naruto fans out there) and separate ichiruki ones too. But of course I'll finish this one first :D. ENJOY!

Notes for better understanding: Rukia's last name, Kuchiki, literally means "rot" and "wood." And in the language of flowers, white lilies mean "purity."

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IV. LET ME ROT FROM THE INSIDE OUT

Ichigo naturally thought that _of course_ even hollows had a certain odor about them, leaving behind a scent trail wherever they went that shinigami could track like dogs with noses to the ground.

He had long noticed it by now, ever since the first time he encountered one. The scent of a hollow was oddly muted but distinct, the putrid, paralyzing stench of rotten eggs and smoldering sulfur that crept into and invaded every molecule of breathable air shrouding the hollow, the kind of smell that was drawn into his nose forcing him to smell it even before he realized and recognized the overwhelmingly nauseating scent. It was the smell of decay and rotting (_the rotting of its heart, the devouring of unbelievable pain_) and atrophy. But Ichigo soon learned that hidden among all of these revolting scents that constituted the hollow's odor were the alarmingly nostalgic notes of despair and sadness, the sole aspects that made those hollows seem almost... human. This last part did not sit particularly well with Ichigo.

Rukia merely snorted dismissively when Ichigo once remarked to her on the peculiarities and unsettling nature of a hollow's scent and how, no matter how hard he tried to find it, the once pungent and putrid smell was slowly dissipating into nothingness until he could barely sense it anymore. It was clear she did not feel the same way about the hollow scent, and perhaps it had something to do with the fact that she did not know what Ichigo was truly talking about since she herself had long forgotten what a hollow smelled like. _Every seasoned shinigami knows a hollow has no scent, for if a hollow were to smell like despair, it would need to know love, and for a hollow to love, it needs a heart – a heart it cannot possibly have._

He was going to ask her what despair had anything to do with love and hearts but decided he didn't want to know, as they were interrupted by the ring of Rukia's cell phone, calling them to duty to go purify a nearby hollow.

Not ten minutes later, Rukia watched as the hollow they had been fighting disintegrate into nothingness, soul purified and sent to Soul Society. She had a worried expression on her face and when Ichigo noticed this and remarked insultingly in an offhanded sort of way, _you look like you just smelled the dying corpse of a cat on the road_, Rukia answered ambiguously _maybe I did_. He had been expecting some version of her usual scathing, sarcastic remarks fired back at him for insulting her so, but her quiet voice took him by surprise instead. He wondered what was wrong that was causing such a thunderous look to overcast the delicate white features of her face, but didn't say the words of concern aloud; rather, as he has long learned, the _absence_ of words was more than enough. Ichigo watched Rukia as she slowly walked towards him, her back to the rising moon. For some reason her hand clutched her chest.

"Did you smell that?" she asked.

"Smell what?"

"The same smell you were talking about earlier..."

"...Oh." Ichigo paused, trying to remember. "No, not really."

Rukia chuckled drily. "So now I can smell it and you can't. Then let me rot from the inside out like my namesake, as a true Kuchiki; you'll no doubt smell it again. But perhaps you won't want to stick around to smell the notes of such disgusting guilt."

"Hey, that's not – " Ichigo half-wished he had never mentioned his observations to Rukia as he stepped forward and attempted to place his hands comfortingly on her shoulders but Rukia slapped his hands away; they fell limply to the sides of his body, stinging from her sharp retaliation. His words were abruptly cut off; her harsh reaction made him feel like he was being excluded from her.

At this close of a distance Ichigo could smell the subtle, sweet-but-not-too-sweet scent of white lilies diffusing from her exposed neck. It was intoxicating, _sinfully _intoxicating, and it filled his nose and his mind and his befuddled thoughts like nothing else. He vaguely wondered in the back of his mind if something this divine could possibly fade and rot away as she claimed. Strangely enough Rukia's enchanting scent unscrambled the words on the tip of his tongue like suddenly putting on a pair of glasses for weak eyes; there was so many things he wanted to say if only those words – words of consolation, words of understanding, words of _empathy_ – could be _pushed out of his mouth_. If only Ichigo could lean ever so slightly forward and inhale deeply, if only he could find the mysterious source of the bewitching smell that was that bouquet of lilies –

– but suddenly the enthralling fragrance was gone, carried away by the wind as Rukia walked away from him and towards his (_her_) home, leaving behind a perplexed Ichigo who wondered why the slapped hand did not sting as much as the pain in his chest.


	5. The Sun Was Dying Little By Little

**Author's Note:** The final part. FYI, when I wrote this, I imagined this taking place right after Aizen is defeated, at the end of the Hueco Mundo arc to parallel the end of the Soul Society arc. Should make more sense now. Sense: _sight_.

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V. THE SUN WAS DYING LITTLE BY LITTLE

At the time of evening, all of Seireitei was washed in an orange glow, causing the sky to appear the same vibrant hue as Ichigo's hair. The sun, although still too bright to look at directly, was slowly sinking out of sight beyond the horizon and in its retreat, hues of purple and blue were beginning to tinge the sky's edges.

In the heart of the Kuchiki mansion was a beautiful pond where the floating lilies grew rampant, circular leaves of vivid green floating upon the pond's surface, the lily pads blending seamlessly with the water. Some of the buds had yet to bloom; the petals of those that had appeared an almost iridescent pure white with a deep golden center. The flowers were extraordinarily large, baring their deepest secrets open for the entire world to see. The water's surface was like a mirror, reflecting the orange skies and hiding from view the complicated, tangled, and sometimes ugly vines and roots of the enchanting floating lilies.

A graceful, ornate wooden bridge, painted a brilliant red, arched over the middle of the pond. The pond was surrounded on all sides by the walls of the mansion; the rooms, it seemed, revolved around this core, this lily garden.

Amongst all the glowing orange reflected on the pond was Ichigo's stolid face as he leaned on the bridge's railing on his elbows. The usual scowl was on his face – if possible, the scowl was deeper than usual – and his brown eyes appeared almost black, clouded by thundering, troublesome thoughts.

He was startled by the sound of light, cautious footsteps; when he turned his head, he was met with the stunning indigo eyes of Rukia. They stared at each other for a moment before Ichigo abruptly returned his attention to the watery image of the golden orb, the sun.

"Ichigo..." Rukia murmured.

The boy (_how fast he has grown into a man_) shook his head vehemently. "Stop. I already know. It's the same as last time, right?" Rukia said nothing; she did not need to put the obvious into words. "You're going to say that I don't belong here. You're going to say that you don't belong in the human world. I get it."

"I--" she began.

With a look of contemplation on his face, Ichigo cut her off, saying quietly, "It's funny. I understood last time. I didn't like it, but I understood that you wanted to stay in Seireitei although not two days before people here wanted to see you dead. But this time... I just don't understand. What is so different about this time?"

"You're over-thinking this, Ichi--"

"I'm _not._ Because it's not as simple as you're making it out to be." His scowl darkened."Tell me something. Is it so wrong to feel that the place I belong is neither in this world nor in the human world but _by your side_? Is it so wrong to feel that the place you belong is by _my_ side?" He was struggling for words, his frustration clearly visible on his face. It was difficult for him (_either_ of them, for that matter) to manifest his feelings into clear-cut, tangible words. But like in any other conflict or problem in his life, he gave it his best effort, his best effort to show this woman beside him that he did not want this to be the end. Ichigo ran his hands through his orange shock of hair, tugging at the strands.

He didn't wait for an answer. "I don't understand why your voice sounds the clearest to me, why your touch always brings me back to sanity when nothing else does, why your scent is so goddamn intoxicating, why--" Ichigo was rambling and he knew it, but he could not stop, his lips and tongue would not stop moving, betraying him, freeing him... "Does it matter where we are – whether here or there – so long as we are together? I _love_ you, goddamit--are you going to answer me or what?!"

Ichigo's mouth snapped shut when he realized what he just said and silence descended upon them, adding to the seemingly tranquil scene but for the awkward tension in the air between them. Slow realization dawned upon his face, the handsome face of a man that still had a boyish air about it.

Was that what he had been trying to say all this time? Was it?

He stared at the woman standing before him, this small, petite woman over whom he towered over yet still felt so vulnerable to. He imagined how easily his arm wrapped around her tiny waist, how fiercely her deep violet eyes glowed with passion. He could not see what the abstract concept of love itself was, but if he had to describe what it was, he would say: _Rukia._ Ichigo knew that this was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

If there ever was a clear-cut answer in Life, Ichigo decided, then this was it.

"I love you," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

He tried to read her porcelain face for any reaction at all, but Rukia was now looking out on the pond like he had been just some minutes before.

The floating lilies called to them tantalizingly with their open buds, as if daring them to do the same. The sun was dying, little by little, sinking ever further down. Soon, the sky will be black – as black as his shinigami uniform that now fit so comfortably on him like a second skin, as black as Rukia's hair.

Her hand found his, resting upon the vermillion wooden rail of the bridge. Her thin, graceful fingers laced with his large, calloused ones, intertwined like their destinies.

"I love you, too, you idiot," Rukia whispered, and Ichigo was startled (surprise, mixed with relief that his feelings were reciprocated) by the quiet happiness he heard in her voice. "And, no, it doesn't matter, as long as we're together."

Yes, the sun was dying little by little. But only for this evening, for the sun was destined to continue to glow through the moon and inevitably reborn the following morning.

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_fin_

**Author's Note:** It's finished. Thank you guys so much for reading and reviewing. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. Don't worry; this isn't going to be my last ichiruki fanfic, so until then, thanks again!


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